The Tree

    Oh to be free of myself, With nothing left to remember, To have my heart as bare As a tree in December；

    Resting, as a tree rests After its leaves are gone, Waiting no more for a rain at night Nor for the red at dawn；

    But still, oh so still While the winds come and go, With no more fear of the hard frost Or the bright burden of snow；

    And heedless, heedless If anyone pass and see On the white page of the sky Its thin black tracery.